Watcher
by cerasi1
Summary: Sordric watched Murtagh leave, one night. And many months later he watched, with fearful eyes, as Murtagh was returned to Uru’baen. Now, with the hatching of the second egg, Sordric would have to watch his friend changed, altered, and controlled. OC, mayb
1. Prologue Departure

**Watcher**

Disclaimer: The characterisations are partly mine, but the characters themselves are not mine, the plot is mine but it fits into a story that is not mine, and I do not mean to impose on any who may be insulted by my use of them.

Prologue – Departure

The dark hooded figure, so hard to distinguish at such a distance, slinked from deep shadow to deep shadow as it made its way towards the wall. Sordric watched with a mixture of sadness and brilliant pride as the moving shadow leapt up, mounted the wall, and then slipped down the other side.

Freedom, Sordric thought, would be a splendid thing.

'Sordric Watcher,' his mother's voice cried. 'Come away from that window. It's bed time, and the night is never a friendly place.'

'It is if you don't want to be seen,' Sordric muttered as he lowered himself away from the window ledge. His mother was kind enough, but not a woman to be trifled with. None of the ladies of court stood for silliness, least of all his mother, who had struggled so hard to retain her position after the death of her husband. The pregnancy had saved her, but only because the child had been male.

'What was that?' she asked. Half a moment later she deemed it unimportant. 'Did you eat your dinner?' Spying his empty plate, she nodded to herself, reassured. Such an odd habit – asking a question one can already answer.

'Mother, will you ever cease to treat me like a five year old?' Sordric said, rolling his eyes. His mother laughed fondly, her airs fading for a moment and the true warmth showing through her eyes.

'Perhaps when you turn eighteen, and begin your training, I shall cease to treat you like a child. Until then, you are under my care alone, and you shall remain my darling boy.'

Sordric sighed. Eight damned months, and it would all change. How he wished he had followed that other young man that night. He had watched him preparing for this move for days, even tracked him as he lead the horse out to await him beyond the wall. In eight months, on his eighteenth birthday, Sordric's normal studies would cease and, as the son of a nobleman, he would be recruited into the King's service in whatever capacity he was deemed suitable.

Sordric washed his face and hands in the bowl of warm water, and lifted an extra blanket from the pile. He kissed his mother goodnight and then slipped into his chambers where the cold bed awaited. Sordric veered around the bed, wrapping himself in his blanket as he went, and sat by the window.

The night was empty, but for the small glowing shapes of lantern-bearing watchmen roaming the walls. Beyond that wall was the city, and beyond the city was a world that Sordric had only ever seen on maps, lines and letters depicting something so large that his mind couldn't even begin to comprehend. Every part of Sordric's body ached for the land beyond. He wanted to be able to saddle a horse and ride North, to the forest of Du Weldenvarden, or South to Surda and the oceans beyond, West, to the much-feared, mysterious Spine, and finally East, into the Hadarac where the earth had seen so much sun in its life that it had dried – a vast ocean of sand ringed by mountains and forests.

'You always thought I was too young to ride with you, Murtagh,' Sordric whispered to the land beyond the city. 'But what have you condemned me to, my only friend, by leaving me here this night?'


	2. Return

**Watcher**

Disclaimer: The characterisations are partly mine, but the characters themselves are not mine, the plot is mine but it fits into a story that is not mine, and I do not mean to impose on any who may be insulted by my use of them.

A/N: I may be wrong about certain facts, so feel free to correct me if you find any mistakes.

Chapter 1 – Return

'Who do you think it is?' Bellon whispered. He peered as far as he could out of the corner of the window, his scroll on 'Diplomatic Politics with Lesser Races' left forgotten on the table. Sordric sighed and tried desperately to ignore the growing noise in the library. Yet another prisoner dragged before the King, what true excitement could there be in this one?

Sordric ducked his head and continued copying out each line of his own scroll entitled 'Rhyme and Reason: the value of fluency in debating'.

'There's so many soldiers!' Bellon reported to the rest of the people gathered around the window. 'Must be important, or powerful,'

'Maybe it's an elf,' another young man said. A woman beside him, a few older than most of the boys, shook her head.

'No, they had an elf in Dras-Leona, and they didn't make this much of a fuss,' she said authoritatively. 'Could be the Rider they were talking about.'

Tryft, an older student in diplomatic training, turned his head about and laughed. 'Women,' he scoffed. 'They believe every damned rumour that passes through here. There's no rider!'

'There is!' Bellon retorted. 'My cousin sent me a letter about it. He lives in Teirm, and he said they saw it, there. Huge, green, and ugly. Said it roared fire everywhere, and that it screamed worse than a Ra'zac.'

Tryft was preparing himself for another bout of mockery, and Sordric was preparing himself to move to a quieter area in the library, when someone burst through the door, a young boy who had not yet started training, by the looks of him.

'It's Murtagh!' he cried. 'They've found him, they brought him back. The son of Morzan is returned!'

A heavy silence followed his statement. Many of the students there had studied with Murtagh at one point or another, perhaps even played with him as a child. Even if they had not got along, none of the students liked the implications of his return. None who defied the King's will were dealt with lightly.

'They'll punish the bastard for abandoning, now,' Bellon laughed. 'Teach him right for defying mighty Galbatorix.'

Tryft smacked Bellon upside the head.

'Silence, fool,' he hissed. 'You don't know what you're talking about.'

Bellon tried to protest, but the rest of the people in the library were already rushing down towards the King's Hall, keen to see the fate of young Murtagh.

Sordric sat silent. His heart beat heavily and his throat dried up. He wanted water, and he wanted to go to the King's Hall, and for a desperate moment he knew not which one was more important.

Sordric abandoned his scroll, pen, and ink, and dashed through the door, darting left and leaping down the servants' stairs. His pony-tail of mouse-brown hair thudded his back with each stride, and swung from side to side. He halted before a door that would lead him to the upper levels of the King's Hall, and composed himself, then pushed the door carefully open and slipped out.

Even the upper levels, usually scant except in times of war, were pressed tightly with every noble, and all their noble children, vying for a direct line of sight. Just as he was about to press his way to the front of the balcony, a loud voice cracked over the crowd.

'You are all dismissed. I would have silence in my halls, and no onlookers bar my guards!' Galbatorix's voice swelled and shuddered over the hall, penetrating all ears and minds at once.

Sordric ducked back behind the servants' door and waited as he heard the crowds mill out. Then, quietly, he pushed the door open and moved forward to the edge of the balcony. He peered out, hands tingling, and saw a lonesome figure, bowed and beaten, swaying at the footend of the hall, surrounded by guards. Dark hair hung over his face, and his pale skin was stripped bear down to the waist. And on his back, terrible as the day it was first wrought, was the vast, jagged scar, legacy of his father, which Murtagh had shown so few, and now was shown against his will.

Silence drowned the hall, and Sordric glanced up to the throne.

Galbatorix was staring at him, an unpleasant smile on his lips. Sordric heard his voice in his mind.

_Everyone includes you, young Watcher._

Sordric threw one last frightened glance at Murtagh, whose face had turned up slightly as if he'd heard the voice as well. Then he dashed backwards, and along to the formal exit where he raced past guards and down to his chambers. He would not return to the library, he could not!

Murtagh had returned. But why, damn him? He had angered the King so greatly when he left, and had evaded the King's forces for so long. What tragedy had befallen him that he should be captured and brought back? Which dog had gained his trust then betrayed him to the King?

Sordric ran through the castle, ignoring the displeased stares he attracted from all the other men and women of court. He would have to wait, he knew he would, for the King would not be argued with. But how long could he wait? Murtagh's return meant so much. Even now, Sordric's heart raced with great fear and great joy. He felt sick with himself, knowing that he secretly celebrated the return of a friend, even if it meant the friend faced unforeseeable torture and suffering. He could not help but feel happier, somehow…

By the time Sordric reached his chambers, now separate from the ones he shared with his mother as a child, tears burned his eyes, and as he closed the door behind him, he let them fall. He heaved his breaths in and out, and allowed himself to slump on the back of the door and slide down to the floor.

'Oh, no,' he exhaled. Gulping back the air, he moved forward on his knees to the table where there sat a pitcher of water and a cup to drink it from. He downed eight quick cups of water, allowing the occasional drip to trickle down his neck and wet his undershirt. He splashed half of the last cup of water on his face, and rubbed it in.

With cold comes reality, he thought, as he opened his eyes and stared about. He felt as though he should be doing something, anything, to aid his friend. And yet what could he do? Murtagh's fate would be decided by the King, and none could defy his mighty power. Sordric crawled slowly to his bed and sprawled himself across it.

'He could be killed,' he whispered to himself. 'He could be tortured for weeks. He might be enslaved and sent far away. Perhaps he'll even be restored to his original standing.'

Sordric shook his head and rolled onto his back. None may know the future, not for certain. He would wait. When King Galbatorix had decided Murtagh's fate, then Sordric would see what could be done about it.

'Why didn't you take me with you?' Sordric growled, shaking his head as he stared up at the ceiling. 'Damn you, Murtagh, we were friends once. And what of us now?'


End file.
